


to fight aloud is very brave

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jennifer doesn't find him where she expects to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to fight aloud is very brave

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after 4.07, 'Missing.' Thanks to [Cate](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com) for betaing. Written for [Eliza](http://randomeliza.livejournal.com).

Jennifer doesn't find him where she expects to. Not in the mess with Dr McKay, or in the armoury with the Colonel or the gym with Teyla, but out by himself on one of the piers, sitting on the edge with his trousers rolled up and his feet dangling in the water. A little more out of the way than she'd have thought Ronon would like; but then again, it's not like she knows him that well. What she knows of him she knows from glancing contact: old gossip, occasional group dinners in the mess, hours spent saving the lives of him and his team members in the infirmary. It's not like he talks much.

Ronon doesn't say anything now, either; he looks up when she draws near, but then goes back to looking out at the horizon, at the way the sinking sun is making the water flare up, sodium bright. But he's not giving off any air of hostility, no great desire to be alone, so Jennifer sits down next to him, tucking her feet up against her body so that she doesn't get her shoes wet. Ronon's feet, she notices, are narrow and slim and bare, the bones strangely delicate; there are clusters of tiny orange fish swimming around his ankles, mouthing curiously at his skin.

"Hey, Ronon," she says when she's settled, feeling unaccountably nervous.

"Doc?" He looks at her then, a sideways shot through his lashes that manages to be wary, but still about as flirtatious as anything the Colonel ever manages.

"I have a favour to ask," Jennifer says. "Not anything big!" she hastens to add when Ronon shifts, looking a little uncomfortable, "Not really, but I wouldn't feel right asking Teyla right now, not with.... with everything. And Colonel Sheppard is, well, he's Colonel Sheppard."

Ronon cocks an eyebrow as if to say "And?"

"So I was wondering," she continues, "If you'd teach me how to fight."

That gets his attention. "Thought everyone was trained back at SGC?"

"No," Jennifer says, mouth twisting into something like a smile when she thinks back to what happened on New Athos, to Teyla's fierceness and her own fear and the look on Nabel's face when she shot him. "No, they showed us how to use weapons. I'm pretty sure they didn't teach us how to fight."

"You think there's a difference?" Ronon says, standing up slowly, bare feet leaving a wet trail as he walks back up the low steps to the main part of the pier. Jennifer hurries after him.

"Well, yeah," she says, "Now I think I do."

He shoots her one of his rare grins, no less the brilliant for being unexpected. "Good," he replies, "Least you've got the first lesson down."

* * *

They arrange to meet early the next morning, about an hour before Jennifer has to be in the infirmary. She's still yawning when she stumbles into the gym, scraping her hair back into a messy ponytail and hoping she'll be awake enough to focus on what Ronon's going to teach her; early morning has never been her best time.

It doesn't seem to be a problem for Ronon, though; when the door hisses open for him a minute or two later, he's nodding good-bye to the Colonel. Sheppard's chest is rising and falling heavily as he chugs from a water bottle, dark t-shirt stuck to him with sweat, and he flaps one hand feebly at them before he heads off in the direction of the transporter.

Ronon doesn't even look winded.

"You, ah, you go running with Colonel Sheppard like that every morning?" Jennifer asks, looking over at the now-closed door. She took the Colonel's last physical, knows that he's in good shape, has seen him in the field; and the thoughts of having to meet the standards of someone who can leave him breathless are suddenly even more intimidating.

"Have to keep him in shape," Ronon says, one corner of his mouth twitching up as if he's laughing softly at a joke he hasn't shared with her yet. "McKay's turning him soft. Computer games."

Jennifer blinks a little, then shakes her head; that's not a question she thinks she wants to ask. "No, it's just... I'm not out of shape, but I'm not exactly in shape either; at least, not the kind of shape you need to be to do what you and the Colonel do every day, and I hope you don't think—"

Ronon folds his arms, stands there and looks at her, limned in the light slanting morning-gold through the great panes of glass; he doesn't say anything, but Jennifer can feel her words die away just the same. She feels like she's being examined; she's just not sure in what. Eventually, he says "Why did you come to me?"

Jennifer frowns. "I told you," she says slowly, wondering if she's said something wrong, offended him somehow, "I want to learn how to fight."

"Then this has to be about you," Ronon says; his voice isn't gruff, but it's slow, measured, like he's trying to convince her of something important. "Not anyone else. Not me, or Sheppard, or Teyla. Just how you survive. Okay?"

"Okay," Jennifer agrees. She offers him a tentative smile, and is surprised all over again when he smiles back.

"Okay," he says again, and drops to sit cross-legged on the floor, the soles of his feet tucked up against his thighs. Jennifer hesitates at first, then follows his lead, sitting opposite him, the lines of their bodies forming a loose circle.

"Tell me what they taught you back at SGC," he says. So she does.

* * *

They don't do anything physical the first morning; she talks, he listens, and she's fifteen minutes late to the morning's meeting for infirmary staff. She's running fifteen minutes late all day, and that leaves Jennifer a little irritated with herself, a little irritated with Ronon, much as she rationally knows it's unfair; her whole day upset for a lesson where she learned nothing.

The next morning, though, she realises that maybe Ronon had the right idea after all, to ease her into it slowly with words rather than actions. When the gym door slides open to let him in, she's already stretching out her hamstrings, anticipating the lesson rather than dreading it, and she's pretty sure the expression in his eyes when he looks at her is approval.

He still doesn't show her anything too physical; just gets her to go through the movements she'd described to him yesterday, her feet a little apart, stance steady and stable, breathing even. There's a little part of her that's disappointed, that had anticipated Ronon showing her something showy straight off—high kicks or back flips or how to take out two at once—but more of her appreciates what he's taking the time to do here. Not moving her, but helping her move, his arms curving around hers, helping her push forward when she needs to, letting her step back when it keeps her steady.

* * *

They never set a definite schedule, but somehow they know to meet for an hour each morning on the days Jennifer's on call or Ronon's got a mission, two hours on the days when their schedules leave them both free. He keeps their lessons slow; she learns something new every time they meet, but he teaches her with an incredible patience she hadn't thought he would possess. First with the practice mannequin and then with Ronon himself, he shows her how to find weak spots and ways to get away; how to play it safe and how to fight dirty. How to wind someone or how to crack their kneecap; how to read intent in body language, how to attack by defending, and how to turn someone's strength against them.

"Surprise," he tells her, corner of his eyes crinkling up as he gets her to work through each move faster and faster. "Doesn't matter if the other guy's stronger than you, or faster, or got more weapons—you get to him first, and you make it count, that's useless."

The first time Jennifer succeeds in using Ronon's momentum against him, in flipping him over her shoulder so that he lands with a gentle thud, spread-eagled on the floor, he gapes up at her like he wasn't expecting it; she's pretty sure the look on her face is the exact same. They stare at one another speechlessly for a moment before Jennifer blurts out "Surprise!"

She likes how he laughs.

* * *

Jennifer knows she's not the only one Ronon teaches. The Marines, of course; a couple of the scientists and linguists who are on off-world teams; and she thinks, wryly, that his bouts with Teyla count as teaching, too, even if all they teach is that Teyla can still take Ronon down four times out of five and barely break a sweat.

She wonders why he does it. She sees him trail into the infirmary at odd hours of the night with a cut to be disinfected; or passes by the gym on her way to lunch and hears the low, bass rumble of Ronon's voice through the walls, drilling the Marines over and over til they understand what he's showing them, tone never anything but even and steady. It takes time and it takes patience, and Jennifer doesn't think he gets much gratitude in return.

One cool evening, when the sky curves indigo overhead and they're all gathered outside enjoying a feast in honour of their new trading partners, the Behbrig, Jennifer overhears Ronon talking with some of the children of the Behbrigi leader. Twins, a boy and a girl, old enough to have a place at a diplomatic event like this, but still young enough that Jennifer can think of them as children. He's listening intently to what they're saying, arms folded and brow furrowed, and Jennifer lingers at the buffet table, pretending a sudden bout of indecision as to whether she should get some of the spicy wrapped denda meat or a mini-quiche, just so that she can hear what they're talking about.

"But you remembered it?" she hears Ronon rumble.

"Yes, yes," the girl nods earnestly. "We did just like you showed us, and Jek even managed to shoot one of the Wraith before we got back to the 'gate. Not one of us got taken."

Jennifer sneaks a glance at Ronon's face, sees him nodding at the two young Behbrigi; there's a look of satisfied resolve there, written as strongly into the lines of his face as if he'd been there himself, shielded a group of children from a Wraith hunting party with his own body; and well, Jennifer thinks, mouth quirking, turning her attention back to what's on her plate, it's her own fault for not being smart enough to realise why he does this a long, long time ago.

* * *

They spend their next lesson working on flexibility and posture. Ronon, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a faded old t-shirt which must once have belonged to one of the Marines, looks like some kind of parody of a hippy yoga teacher; dreads tied back to keep them out of the way, long legs knotted into some improbable position, and Jennifer can't help but giggle when they stretch out into something that looks an awful lot like Downward Facing Dog.

"What?" Ronon says.

"Nothing, nothing," Jennifer says, then giggles again when she looks back at him through her legs, sees the look on his face—puzzlement and something that's almost fond exasperation, like she sees on the faces of most people now when they look at Dr McKay. She relaxes her stance, lets herself flop to the ground, rolling onto her back, and after a moment, Ronon does the same.

Jennifer looks over at him, and finds that he's looking at her; the expression on his face changes, and the silence grows until it's almost awkward, and Jennifer finds herself blurting out, "Don't you ever ask for anything?"

Ronon blinks at her, then rolls to sit upright; Jennifer knows straight away that she's said something wrong. "No, no," she says, "What I meant to say was—you taught me even though you didn't have to, and I'm grateful. Is there anything I can show you in return? I mean, teaching? I know field medicine, obviously, I can bake a little, and I can pitch pretty good, I was on my town's Little League baseball team, and—"

He reaches out and takes one of her hands, silencing her without saying anything. He turns it over so that her small palm is cupped, very gently, in his larger one, then leans to press a kiss right at the point where her wrist begins. His beard tickles the delicate skin, and Jennifer swears she can hear her pulse there starting to thrum faster. Ronon looks up at her, eyes dark, and says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jennifer replies faintly, unable to look away; when she gets to the infirmary later, she blames the flush in her cheeks on the exercise and determinedly ignores Maria's significant glances.

* * *

At the end of the sixth week, Ronon takes her out running with him and the Colonel. Sheppard seems a little stand-offish at first, a little wary, raising one eyebrow at Ronon when he sees Jennifer join them. "Didn't know we'd have company," he says, the question in his voice tamped down just enough to make it polite.

Ronon shrugs, and Jennifer thinks she's starting to learn all the ways he can make his body speak for him, the set of his shoulders and the line of his mouth. She's expecting it when he says, "Just wanted to try something out," and she's expecting when the line of his body tenses suddenly and he whirls, taking off along the walkway, fast and fleet, Jennifer only a split second behind him.

"Race you!" she hears Ronon yell back over his shoulder at Sheppard; hears the answering shout of "Son of a—" from behind her, the urgent pounding of feet. Jennifer throws her head back and runs, feels laughter bubbling up bright and clear in her blood, flings herself around corners and skids down stairs as she struggles to stay ahead.

When they pass through the gate room, dodging around Chuck and ignoring McKay's shouts from the balcony, she draws level with Ronon for a brief moment; Jennifer glances over at him, at the strangely youthful set of his jaw, the way his mouth seems open and malleable for once, the spark of joy and mischief in his eyes, and she wonders if this, this, is what he brought her to see.

Jennifer's always been a quick learner; she beats Colonel Sheppard back to their starting position by a good five seconds, and she leans against a railing next to Ronon to catch her breath, her body curving just close enough into his for her to be sure that he's noticed. She hears that little extra intake of breath, almost inaudible under her own breathing and the sound of the Colonel's rapidly approaching footsteps; but she hears it, and she ducks her head, and she grins to herself.

* * *

Unless there have been missions that day, the infirmary's usually blessedly quiet in the evenings; dim sounds from the hallway outside and dimmer lights, and Jennifer tends to take advantage of that to catch up on her paperwork, grimacing at everything she has to file in triplicate and taking strength from the large mug of coffee that sits at her elbow.

That evening, she heads there after dinner, and she gets so caught up in trying to figure out whether Form 8R-HJ (Medical Injuries as a Result of Offworld Contact with Sentient Flora) is interchangeable with Form 8R-K5 (Medical Injuries as a Result of Offworld Contact with Sentient Flora and/or Fauna) that she doesn't realise Ronon's entered her office until his shadow falls across her desk, made darker in the buttery yellow lamplight. She jumps a little, startled.

"Oh, hey," she says, speaking carefully so that she doesn't stumble over her words in her nervousness, "Is everything okay? Have you been sparring with Teyla again?" She reaches out instinctively to check his left side, where she knows the scar from that ill-fated mission to Urza is still healing, but he stops her, looping long fingers around her wrist and gently tugging until she stands up from her chair.

There's only a single point of contact between them, his hand around her wrist, but they're still standing too close for Jennifer to read this any other way; too close for her not to remember just how tall he is; too close for her not to watch, a little entranced, when he licks nervously at his lower lip.

"Hey," she says again, softly, fascinated with how the corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles. "Everything okay?"

"Was wondering," Ronon says, his free hand coming up to play with her hair where it's coming loose from a messy bun, "You said something about extra lessons."

"Yeah," she says, loving the grin that's starting to tug the corner of her mouth upwards, "You wanna learn how to bake brownies? 'Cause I'm pretty good at—" And then all teasing recitations of her many talents are lost, gone, wiped away by the feeling of Ronon's lips against hers; his mouth is hot and wet, his arms and shoulders solid beneath her palms when she pulls herself up to meet his kisses. When she pushes hard against him, he kisses her back deep and strong; when she lets herself relax into it, letting him lead, he kisses her with such slow delicacy that she gasps against his mouth, her skin suddenly too hot and too tight all over.

"Quick study," she says, pulling away just enough to breathe, her gaze still fixed on his mouth. Jennifer shivers at the way his hands have worked their way underneath the back of her shirt, tracing patterns and symbols against the soft skin of the small of her back and fists her hands in his hair, trying to get his mouth back on hers.

"Willing student," he mumbles against her mouth. He kicks out with one leg, sends her empty desk chair skidding across the floor to hit the sensor and close her office door; and right before he kisses her again, right before she closes her eyes, Jennifer can see him smile.


End file.
